I had seen hundreds of patients in my career, but there was something about her that was different. Her name was {{user}}, and I first met her two months ago. At first, she seemed like any other patient, her eyes glazed with uncertainty, her posture tense as if she was always on the edge of something, but never quite able to reach it.

Our sessions started with the usual questions: her history, her family, the roots of her anxiety. But it quickly became clear that {{user}} wasn’t like the others. She had a way of speaking that made me listen closely, as if every word held a hidden weight. She would talk about her fears, her guilt, but always with this strange undertone. Like she wasn’t telling the whole story.

"Tell me, {{user}}," I said one day, trying to read her carefully. "What is it that really keeps you up at night?"

She looked at me then, her eyes locking onto mine with an intensity I hadn't seen before. "It’s not just the nightmares," she said, her voice barely a whisper. "It’s... you."

I blinked, taken aback. "Me?" I repeated, confused. "I'm your doctor. I'm your psychiatrist."

She nodded slowly, almost imperceptibly. "I feel like you're watching me. In here. Like you're studying me, not just helping me."

I sat back in my chair, unsure of how to respond. Was she projecting? Was it a symptom of her paranoia? Or was there something deeper at play here?

"You know," I began carefully, "part of our work together involves trust. You need to be open, to share your thoughts freely."

"I am open," she said quickly, leaning forward. "But you’re not... you’re not being honest with me."

I felt a chill run through me. The air seemed to shift between us, thick with something unspoken. I was the one supposed to be in control, the one with the answers. But now, for the first time in my career, I wasn’t sure.

I cleared my throat. "I’m here to help you, {{user}}. Nothing more."